


Benchmarking

by Mertiya



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Canon Compliant, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, F/F, Femslash, Femslash February, Happy Sex, I refuse to think about the things that are going to eventually happen, Locker Room, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, This is just silly and cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-11
Updated: 2016-02-11
Packaged: 2018-05-19 19:33:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5978646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mertiya/pseuds/Mertiya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>South's horny, Connie doesn't object.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Benchmarking

**Author's Note:**

> Add this fandom to the rapidly-lengthening list of things that are Rastaban's fault. Also, I've only seen up through season 10, so please forgive if there are any post-10 continuity tangles. (I don't think there will be, since this takes place pre-PFL, but you never know.)

           “God, I’m horny,” South complains as she strips off her shirt. Connie tries not to look, but she knows it’s going to be a losing battle, eventually. With a sigh, she wipes the post-training sweat from her forehead and begins to pull off her shirt as well. “Connie,” South says, then louder, “ _Connie_.”

            Connie rolls her eyes and finally looks over. South’s bra is off, as well, and she’s flung it carelessly to the floor of the locker room. Heat pools in the base of Connie’s stomach, but she tries to look at her teammate’s face, instead of her torso. “What?”

            “I said, I’m horny.”

            “That’s nice.”

            South pouts, running a hand through her spiky blond hair. Her chest ripples distractingly. “C’mon, aren’t you also kind of tense?”

            It’s been a long day, training was terrible, and Connie still feels entirely inadequate and like this whole thing was a mistake. So, yeah, she’s tense. But the locker room is dirty and small, and she’s also tired. “You could take care of it yourself,” she points out, and turns back to folding her undergarments, hoping that South will take the hint. It’s happened occasionally.

            South makes a huffing noise, but doesn’t actually object. There’s the sound of shifting cloth, and then she moans, soft and long-drawn-out. Goddammit. “I meant in your own room,” Connie snaps irritably. “What if North comes in? Or anyone else?”

            “Just block the door with something,” South responds, her voice breathy. Connie rolls her eyes.

            “Seriously?” she mutters, but she drags one of the benches over in front of the door. It’s not terribly heavy, but it’s a pretty solid indication that’s normally enough to ensure at least a little privacy. She can probably get past it herself easily enough when she wants to leave. Which she should. Probably right away.

            She looks back, and that’s a mistake. South is sprawled backward across one of the benches, one hand behind her head, the other between her thighs. She hasn’t even taken off her pants or boots; she’s just unzipped them enough to give her access. Her breasts are flat against her chest, but the nipples are hard and flushed and peaked.

            “Goddammit,” Connie swears out loud. “All right, all right, you bitch. Just get over here.”

            South grins and vaults to her feet immediately. Connie pulls off her own bra and strips down almost entirely, leaving on her boxers only because she doesn’t really want to sit naked on the grungy locker room bench. “Between my legs,” Connie says, and doesn’t flush, even when South sniggers.

            It’s something they’ve done for each other before—a little past (a lot past, a small voice whispers in Connie’s head) the normal closeness of teammates, even in this program, not anything romantic exactly, but just a bit more than simple friendship. So Connie knows what South likes, and even if she’s tired and frustrated, she likes the warm feeling of South sitting down in front of her, leaning back against her. South turns her face to the side, and Connie moans as lips sweep across her collarbone. She grabs South’s chin in her left hand, slipping her thumb into the other woman’s mouth, and feels the breathless obscenity that South murmurs around it. Her right hand slides across South’s chest, tweaking one nipple after another—“ _god_ — _fuck_ — _yes”—_ and she continues her exploration downward, hips hitching up at the sensation of South writhing against her.

            She teases the rough hair between South’s legs, though her teammate protests, moaning through the finger in her mouth, bucking against her, and Connie grins and kisses the side of South’s throat. She likes the sensation of power, and she knows that South likes the feeling of—captivity? Containment, maybe. “You _fu’ing_ bitch, will you jus’ fu’ me, just—” South writhes angrily, and Connie takes pity on her, parting her folds with a practiced hand and sliding two fingers down the front of her clitoris. South yelps and moans, rubbing against her hand—she’s slick and desperate, and Connie moans as well, trying to get a little friction from the movement of her thighs against the bench.

            Licking at the base of South’s neck, she tastes the salt of her sweat and hums into her shoulder. One finger slides down further and pushes inside, and South groans, leaning back, freeing her mouth and turning to nibble eagerly at Connie’s breast. “Fuck,” Connie mutters breathlessly, their positions shifting on the bench. There isn’t really enough room, but they’ve done this before, they can fit both bodies side by side if they try and if they steady themselves with their free hands on the floor.

            It’s not ideal, but they’re kissing, and South’s hand is in Connie’s boxers now, South’s tongue halfway down Connie’s throat—South really needs to learn to avoid choking her partner, Connie thinks distractedly, but there’s warmth in her stomach and building across her cheeks. She rubs her thumb in circles across the hot nub of South’s clitoris, and South’s legs tremble as she tries to brace herself and follow with her hips. They’re moaning into one another’s mouths, hot vibration against Connie’s lips, and then South gasps, “ _fuck_ ,” and comes with a sudden jerk, her head knocking against Connie’s forehead.

            Connie waits, holding her as the trembling in her muscles subsides, though the desperate heat is still jangling in her own stomach and groin, waiting to be released. South whimpers softly, then slides off the bench. “Sit up,” she instructs Connie, and Connie complies, then groans in surprise as South wrenches her legs apart and buries her face between Connie’s thighs. One hand lands on South’s head, and now the heat is spiking through her, clit to chest to cheeks.

            “ _South_ ,” she gasps breathlessly, and her hand tightens in South’s hair, nails digging into the scalp.

            “Bitch,” South laughs into her, and Connie whimpers at the sensation. She bites her lip and moves her hips, feeling the rising sensation of tightness in the muscles of her abdomen. For a moment, she’s teetering, and then she tips over and falls hard, her world dissolving into a long-drawn-out wash of ecstasy and warmth.

            She’s starting to lean back limply, when there’s a banging noise from the blocked door. She hears a muffled voice, and then the bench scraping along the floor. “—the hell is this bench doing here?” It’s Agent Washington’s voice. The new recruit. Connie looks over her shoulder to see him gaping in their direction, having entirely ignored the bench in front of the door and shoved his way in anyway.

            “Hey, dipshit!” Connie yells in irritation. “Can’t we get a little privacy around here?”

            Beside her, South dissolves into laughter.

            Washington stares for another moment, frozen, a blush rising in his cheeks. “Fuck,” he manages. “Sorry, I didn’t—sorry!” He backs out of the door as quickly as he can, and Connie glares at South, who’s still laughing. After a minute, the irritation ebbs, and she runs a hand through her hair, then through South’s.

            “Less horny now?” she asks.

            South grins. “I could go for round two, but I think the rookie killed the mood.”

            “Just a bit,” Connie says with a sigh, stretching and yawning. “Besides, I need some sleep. Not all of us can live on coffee and pills, you know.”

            “Okay,” South says. She sounds like she’s in a better mood than she was a quarter of an hour ago, anyway. “I’ll see you at dinner, then. I need to tell everyone that Wash can’t be trusted with benches.”

            Connie laughs to herself as she gathers up her things, the insides of her thighs tingling pleasantly. Poor Washington. He isn’t going to be living this down in a hurry.


End file.
